Duryodhan went forward, smiling mischievously. ‘Suda! what did you think of your uncle’s performance?’

Light from the alchemical lanterns caught the sudden flush on Karna’s face. ‘Do you come to mock a wounded man? It was all I could do not to fall.’

‘Fall for her do you mean?’

Karna had a wary look in his eyes, as if he had been caught stealing. Ah, he does like her. And that too, over the course of one dance! Boys...always thinking with their cocks, Shakuni sighed.

‘I do not understand, Prince,’ Karna rallied.

‘It’s quite simple. I love Mati, and I do not wish to wed this Fire Princess. You seem much enamoured with Draupadi, and you are sworn to me. So, it is decided. You will be taking part in the swayamvar tomorrow. You will win Draupadi with your bow, and add Panchal to the strength of the Union.’

The shells fell from Karna’s hand. What followed was a melodrama between friends, all rather distasteful to Shakuni. He limped out of the room into the grounds. The sky was dark now. A chill wind was blowing. Shakuni felt cold as he contemplated the cruelties of Fate yet again. How long he stayed there he could not have said, but after a time he heard a bell ringing in the distance, across the city, to signal the midnight hour.

Duryodhan stepped out of the tent wearing a wide grin. So, Karna had agreed. My sister is going to kill me. Crestfallen, Shakuni walked back with the elated Duryodhan to their own chambers in the palace. The streets that had thronged with merchants in the day, selling their wares, was near-deserted now as the pair crossed them. A swirling wind gusted, drawing a shivery scream from the cracks in the buildings that pressed close on either side. Now that Kampilya was empty, sound did queer things here.

The woman had been waiting for them in the shadows to Duryodhan’s right. Somehow the stones of the street seemed to drink up the noise of her steps, shrouding her movement in a blanket of silence. But Shakuni instantly knew she was the same dancer who had approached him in the afterfeast. He would have recognized those thighs anywhere. One of Duryodhan’s sleeve knives dropped into his palm, but the woman stayed some distance away.

‘Prince Duryodhan,’ the woman said in an even voice, deserting her Golden Islands accent. ‘I know you are carrying arms, but let us not be uncivil. I hope you are aware we have you at a disadvantage.’